“Iwas born in 1820, which I believe I told you already,” Robert began. “My birth name was Robert Douglas Campbell. I was raised on a rural settlement located a few kilometers east of London. My family were farmers.”
“I would have never guessed that you’re English,” I commented.
“I’ve been in America for some time. I’ve lost my accent for the most part. It emerges when I’m stressed or . . .” He broke eye contact.
“Or?”
“Aroused.”
“Oh, right.” I was at a loss for something clever to say that wouldn’t come across as lustful.
“When I was ten, my parents passed away of smallpox, which, amazingly, I didn’t contract. I was far too young to tend to a farm on my own, and I had no other family. Unfortunately, I lost the property and was shipped off to the city. I was placed in a community home for orphaned children, where I shared a single mattress with two other boys close to my age. I was put to work the same day I arrived in London.”
I blinked. “Put to work? But you were ten.”
“The Industrial Revolution was in full force, and there was a shortage of factory workers,” he explained. “It was a different time, Olivia. It was not uncommon for children as young as five to become laborers. It was the accepted norm. As an adolescent, I would regularly work eighteen-hour days behind equipment that could easily rip a person in two.”
“That’s awful. Sickening.” And here I thought I’d had it bad with my negligent parents. Sounded like he’d had it a lot worse, not that it was a competition. Still, I couldn’t help feeling a little embarrassed for going on the way that I had.If you think your life was depraved, try working in a factory at age ten, he must have been thinking.
“The wages were terrible. A person was considered fortunate if they earned enough to put food in their belly each day. The manufacturing plants were oppressively hot during the summer and bitterly cold in the winter. The conditions were unsanitary. There were few windows, no sanctioned toilets, and the ventilation was inadequate. Disease was rampant. So was death.”
“It sounds like hell.”
“Humans don’t realize how good they’ve got it these days,” Robert said offhandedly. “At my company, I furnish employees with a gourmet cafeteria, free laptops, and custom-built desk chairs designed by a chiropractor. There are espresso machines in every break room. I also give bonuses to every worker at the end of the year, regardless of their title, and yet some of them still complain.”
“Man, I’d like to work for you,” I said, then I realized that I already was, indirectly. Oops. “Sounds like they wouldn’t last one day of work in the Industrial Revolution.”
“Onehour,” he corrected facetiously. “Anyway, one evening in 1849—I was twenty-nine at this point—I witnessed an event that changed my life. It was very late, about midnight. I was one of the few workers skilled enough to maneuver the more complicated equipment near the supervisor's top-level office, which meant that I frequently worked on the floor alone at night. I was just finishing up when an elegantly dressed man—an aristocrat—entered the building and went into the office. I knew immediately that he must be the factory owner.
“A few minutes later, the man came out with a sack in his arms. It was money, of course, taken from the office safe. He took no notice of my presence and, knowing my place as a filthy underling, I moved to stay out of his way. I faded into the shadows of the machinery and waited for him to leave.
“As he neared the exit, however, two men entered and rushed him. One of them was unarmed, but the other was brandishing a wrench. Before I could call out, the armed robber hit the aristocrat on the skull. He crumpled to the floor instantly and began to bleed out.
“I stayed hidden as the two thieves argued. From what I ascertained, the unarmed man hadn’t realized that his partner, who was now kicking the factory owner, had gone into the robbery with murderous intentions. He’d assumed the wrench would only be used for intimidation. Furious, the unarmed robber snatched up the sack and made a run for it, but he didn’t get very far. His partner beat him with the wrench, killing him.
“Their scuffle was the distraction I needed. I grabbed a nearby metal pipe, crept up behind the robber, and hit him over the head. I hadn’t killed him, but he wasn’t going anywhere.”
“Ouch,” I commented.
“Are you positive you want to hear such details? I’m afraid you must find all this terribly uninteresting. Or gruesome.”
“Nothing could be further from the truth, Robert,” I said, feeling like a mooning teenager at a rock concert in the fifties. “Please, continue.”
“As you like,” he said, adjusting the blanket so that it was pulled closer around us. “So, there I stood with all three men sprawled at my feet. One of them was dead, the other two gravely injured. I faced a tough decision. I could do what was honorable but unprofitable or what was shameful but lucrative.”
“You mean you were torn between taking the money and helping the aristocrat?”
“Exactly.”
“And you took the high road?”
Robert smiled wickedly. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Olivia, but I went for the cash. It was every man for himself back then, not that it’s an excuse. I’d been hardened from labor, and from years of being treated like an animal. I rationalized that the owner didn’t care ifIlived or died, so it was only fair that I treated him with the same respect.”
“Fair enough.”
“The sack was heavy, filled with more money than I’d ever seen in my lifetime. In my mind’s eye, I was leaving London to buy land in the country, where I’d built a home and find a good woman to share it with.”
“So, what happened?” I pressed, fascinated.
